


i sold my soul to a three-piece

by b_o_i



Series: shiro gets a present [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Choking, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Galra Keith (Voltron), M/M, Pre-Canon, Prostitution, Rough Sex, Sexual Slavery (like kinda implied tho??? like....thts just what he does u kno), Size Difference, this is gross lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-23 07:31:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10715010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/b_o_i/pseuds/b_o_i
Summary: It’s after the big fight where he becomes the new Champion, that they bring Shiro his reward.





	i sold my soul to a three-piece

**Author's Note:**

> i let my gf read this for mistakes and she kinkshamed me??? don't shame me shame the friend who gave me this idea in the first place,,,,,it changed my life. also i should be studying but im not lmao!!

 

It’s after the big fight where he becomes the new _Champion,_ that they bring Shiro his reward. 

He’s a little thing, dressed in silks, shorter than all the Galra he’s seen so far—and he’s seen a lot—and just generally smaller. He’s _dwarfed_ by the guard who opens the door and the other one that tosses him in. Half breed, one of them calls him, along with something else Shiro would rather not repeat. 

“Enjoy your reward, _Champion_ ,” is said with disdain, and then the two of them are left alone.

He watches the boy watch him—he looks Galra enough, w ith small ears and a purple complexion, but as he looks him up and down, Shiro notices that he doesn’t have claws. Barely has any fur, either, from what he can see (he can see a lot), pale dustings that look smooth enough to be mistaken for human skin, if it wasn’t for the color. His eyes, too—they’re yellow, but a pale yellow, not as bright and piercing as his the others. He’s odd. Halfbreed, they called him. 

They stay like that for a long moment, the boy on his knees where he fell, Shiro sitting against the wall, head pounding, until the boy drops his eyes. 

“What’s your name?” he asks; Shiro curses himself for jumping at the sudden noise.

“You don’t deserve my name,” he says, a little to save face and a little because he’s just killed for these creatures’ entertainment; he’s not going to give them anything more.

The boy frowns, but doesn’t retaliate—surprising. “My name’s Keith.” 

That’s an odd name for a Galra, he thinks, but doesn’t say. 

More silence, until Keith clears his throat and goes, “You’re from Earth, right?”

Shiro startles hard, “Earth? Does your emperor know about Earth?”

The little halfbreed shrugs—Keith, he reminds himself, “I don’t know. Probably. It’s not a threat enough to attack right now.”

Shiro eyes him warily, “How do _you_ know about it, then?”

“My father was from Earth, I think.”

Shiro blinks, “You’re half _human_?”

Keith— _such a human name_ , Shiro realizes—shrinks back, like it’s an insult, “Yes. A halfbreed whore. Rare.” 

Shiro flinches at the name, even though Keith doesn’t, like he’s so used to it that it doesn’t even bother him anymore. 

“So that’s why you’re here?”

“Like they said, I’m your reward. You performed well, and Lo—the _prince_ , thought you deserved something for that.”

“So he sent _you.”_

“Yes,” Keith says, short and sharp, like he’s annoyed, ‘I don’t see what your problem is, I’m here to make you feel good, satisfy your needs.”

“I don’t want you to,” Shiro says, shaking his head, because how low do these people think he’s going to stoop—they’ve already made him a murderer, “you don’t want to, either. I’m not going to—take _advantage_ of you like that.”

Out of all things, Keith scowls, like he’s offended him somehow, and stands; Shiro might have been afraid if he wasn’t so small, “Look, I don’t wanna be here as much as you don’t want me here,” he steps forwards, and settles into Shiro’s lap like it’s nothing, “But I’m not gonna get punished just because you don’t wanna feel good for some reason. I have a job to do.”

Shiro flinches hard. He tries to push the boy off him, but Keith doesn’t budge. Shiro is tired, and the adrenaline high he’d been working on has been steadily plummeting, leaving him sore and angry and this boy has Galra eyes, so he grips the boy’s upper arm tight with his prosthetic and hold him away from him in warning—rougher than he might’ve been somewhere else. (He isn’t somewhere else.)

“Please,” Keith’s voice is much softer, suddenly, more practiced, “we have to do this. If I don’t— don’t pleasure you—I’ll be punished for it.”

“Why?” he asks, but doesn’t loosen his grip.

“It’s my job.”

“I’m not going t—“

“I want it,” Keith breathes, slowing planting his knees on either side of him and grinding down like a pro, “I want you to,” but he’s lying, Shiro can see it in the way his nails dig into the palm of his right hand where it’s clenched into a fist like he’s trying to restrain himself, “Champion, please, I want it.” 

He’s lying.

He’s lying, but it just. It feels so good, feels almost heavenly even though he’s barely touched him at all. And well. It is the boy’s job, after all, right? He hasn’t felt good in so so long—and he’s fought for so long, doesn’t he deserve something good? And Keith wants it, he said so, he’s offered himself up on a silver platter (he doesn’t, he so so obviously doesn’t but he’ll get punished if he doesn’t, won’t he? Shiro would be helping him, wouldn’t he?).

“You’ve fought so well,” Keith says softly, a small hand running up his chest and onto his shoulder, “You deserve a reward.” 

It’s the feeling of that small hand running through the fringes of hair on his neck that does it—he lets go of Keith’s arm in favor of gripping his hip, pulling him into the next grind. If it startles Keith at all, he doesn’t show it, just lets out and appreciative little noise and throws his arms around Shiro’s neck. Pulls him closer, bares his own neck, offering himself. 

There’s one, final, shred of hesitation, but the little sound Keith makes when Shiro rubs a hand up his back—it’s enough to let it go. They’ve turned him into a murderer, something less than human. This can’t be worse than that, so he grinds up and presses clumsy kisses up the boy’s neck—barely any fur at all, light enough that it feels nice against his skin without being overwhelming. 

When he reaches his mouth, though, Keith stops him with a finger on Shiro’s lips. “No kissing,” he says firmly. 

“I thought you were my _reward_?” he asks, mean because he can be, because this is a half-Galra prostitute sitting in his lap and this is what they’ve turned him into, “Aren’t you supposed to pleasure me?”

It’s almost funny that _this_ , from the very revealing clothes he’s wearing to grinding into a stranger, is what makes Keith look uncomfortable. 

“I don't,” he starts and then cuts himself off, “I apologize, sir,” like he’s said it before—probably said it countless times before. Shiro feels like an asshole; he doesn’t want to be as cruel as his other Galra…clients. He doesn’t want to be like them. 

So he says, “There are…other ways to use your mouth, if that’s what you’d prefer.” 

Keith blinks, and then nods quickly, shuffling backwards and off of Shiro’s lap. Shiro, feeling suddenly self-conscious, sits up a little straighter, spreading his knees. He watches Keith lean forwards and settle himself between his legs. 

There’s no hesitation in his movements; one minute he’s glancing tentatively up at Shiro, and then next his prison pants are halfway down his thighs and Keith’s mouth is on him. 

It’s easy to see that Keith has done this before. He doesn’t take him all the way automatically, but teases at first, kissing his thighs and using his tongue and kissing the tip of his dick in a way that has Shiro grasping his hair and urging him forwards. Keith goes without complaint, taking almost all of him in his mouth on his first try. He gags a little, but doesn’t jerk back, just breathes through his nose and bobs his head, taking him deeper and deeper. It’s a sight that takes Shiro’s breath away.

_“Christ,”_ he whispers when Keith draws back, panting, and looks up at him. He runs his hand through the boy’s hair, scratching around his little Galra ears—Keith follows his hand like a cat, closing his eyes and leaning into the touch, before dipping back between Shiro’s legs.

It takes an embarrassingly short amount of time for him to come, shooting down Keith’s throat. Keith swallows all of it. 

He sits back on his heels and actually licks his lips, looking straight at Shiro the whole time. Despite the size difference, Shiro feels small under his gaze. There’s a beat of silence, two, and then Keith is settling in his lap again, rubbing circles in Shiro’s shoulders.

Shiro considers pushing him off again—he’s done his job, hasn’t he?—but Keith is staring at his lips in a way that has his dick twitching in interest again. 

When Shiro goes to kiss him this time, Keith doesn’t stop him, just opens his mouth and lets Shiro do what he wants, running his hands through Shiro’s hair and squirming in his lap. The boy tugs a little, right at the base of his neck, and Shiro just. Lets go. 

The kisses turn filthy, hands rucking up royal silks—royal silks on a royal whore, he thinks, and wonders why the prince decided to share with _him_ of all people, what this means—sending shivers down his spine when he feels Keith shudder under the touch. 

Keith ends up on his back, spread out under Shiro with his silks bunched around his waist like he’s not on the floor of a cell, Shiro crouched above him. He works one spit-slicked finger in, before Keith is shaking his head, pulling at Shiro’s shoulders.

“I’m ready,” he says, “It’s fine, I’m ready,” voice breathless enough that Shiro throws caution to the wind, kicks Keith’s legs further apart and pushes in. 

The initial slide in has him breathless. Keith is hot, and tight, and— _wet_. He’s _wet,_ warm and dripping and _oh fuck fuck_ when he clenches down and tells him to _move._

Shiro waits a moment, looks down at the boy underneath him and wonders how they both wound up like this, and moves. Pulls out and thrusts back in, shallow and uncoordinated because _god,_ it feels so good, and Keith is arching his back underneath him like they’re on top of fine sheets instead of cool metal. 

The boy gets a hand in the back of Shiro’s hair and tugs, hooks his legs together over Shiro’s waist like he’s pulling him further in with each thrust. 

“Harder,” he gasps, “ _Harder,_ Champion,” 

“Shiro,” Shiro says.

“What?”

“My name is Shiro. Not Champion.”

_“Shiro,”_ Keith moans, loud and shameless, grips one of Shiro’s wrists where they’re framing his head, “Fuck me harder.” 

Shiro shakes his head, “You’re small,” he says, “I don’t wanna—don’t wanna hurt you.” 

Something flashes in Keith’s eyes, gone quick enough that he can’t read it, and then he’s dragging Shiro’s hand—the prosthetic—into his hair, urging him to grip it.

“My people have hurt _you,_ haven’t they?” he says breathlessly, “You’ve been fighting for so long, I’ve _seen_ it, I _know_ what you can do, just—let it out,” he gasps, gazing up at Shiro, eyes like an inferno, “Fuck me how you wanna fuck me, _Champion_ , fuck me like you mean it.”

Shiro makes some kind of noise, an inhuman sound he never thought he could make, grips Keith’s tiny hip and _fucks_ into him. Keith chokes on his breath, whining high in his throat. 

The sound spurs Shiro on—somewhere in the middle of it all he gets a hand around the boy’s neck—the prosthetic, the one that had tugged and pulled at his hair until his moans were cracking in his mouth—and _squeezes_. He knows there are ways you’re supposed to do this, ways to cut off the air but not the blood, but he doesn’t care, doesn’t know how, doesn’t think Keith cares much either with the way he arches into it, small body trembling.

He holds him like that, one hand gripping a thigh and the other around his neck, moving fast and hard, until tears gather in the corners of the boy’s eyes. Keith gasps beautifully for breath when he lets up. Doesn’t stop moving his hips up to meet Shiro, thrust for thrust, the whole time.

“How does the prince fuck you?” he asks, not recognizing the sound of his own voice.

“What?” Keith chokes.

“The prince. You’re his, right?’ Keith nods weakly, “How does he fuck you?”

“Good.” he answers, “Mean, sometimes,” whimpers when Shiro’s hand tightens again, lightly, “Soft when he’s in a good mood, r-rough when he’s in a better one.” 

“Does he choke you like this?”

Again, Keith nods, small hands gripping Shiro’s wrist.

“He—“ Keith gasps, “He doesn’t kiss me, though.”

_That_ , somehow, the fact that he has something of this boy’s that the prince of the empire doesn’t, is what sends him over the edge. He shifts from his throat to his hair, pulling tight tight tight, sending Keith over the edge with him, a broken moan falling from his lips.

He lies there like that, face buried in the sweaty crook of Keith’s neck for one moment, two, three, breathing deep and bringing himself back together.

Keith looks…well, _fucked_ , Shiro sees when he finally sits up—neck marked up and silk hanging from his shoulders and lips bitten bright red. He understands why this boy is the prince’s favorite. 

As if he can feel Shiro’s gaze on him, Keith opens his eyes and pushes himself up, still panting lightly. Silently, Keith does his best to wipe himself up with what he has—it doesn’t do much, seeing as what he had on in the first place was hardly anything at all, but Shiro isn’t gonna be mean about it. He doesn’t have anything to offer, himself.

Keith moves to stand, and Shiro stands with him. 

“Will I see you again?” he asks before he can stop himself—he doesn’t know why it matters so much to him, suddenly. 

Keith blinks at him, mouth curling up like he’s in on a joke Shiro doesn’t know. After a moment, though, he sobers, “I don’t know.” he answers, “I’ll see you, though. The prince likes watching your matches.” 

Shiro nods. “And if I do well? In my matches?”

That smile is back, a little sadder this time, a little more bleak, “Perhaps you will see me again,” he says, and turns, and knocks on the cell door. 

It opens a few moments later, and the guards lead him back out, leering at his dirty clothes and ruffled hair. Keith barely seems to notice them though, glancing over his shoulder and giving Shiro this little _wave,_ so at odds with everything he’s seen him do. 

Startled, Shiro waves back. 

The door swings shut. And then he is alone again.

 


End file.
